Wear your Rue with a Difference
by Estepheia
Summary: Ficlet. Post-'Lessons' - Fragments about a fractured mind - 'And now, everybody is talking in here...' (COMPLETE)
1. Scattered

Author's Note: I don't normally write ficlets, but I had to write this to get it out of my system. The first part was revamped slightly. Parts 2 and 3 are new additions.

**Wear your Rue with a Difference**

Wenn du lange in einen Abgrund blickst, blickt der Abgrund auch in dich hinein.

_If you look for too long into the abyss, the abyss also stares back._

(Friedrich Nietzsche)

He sits huddled in a corner. Pathetic. Weak. Broken. Pretending he can't hear me. But I know he can. Oh yes.

He's muttering. "Amare. Amo, amas, amat…"

Like Latin's gonna help. It's driving me nuts though, so I give him a vicious push. His head is propelled backwards and hits the wall with a satisfying sound. Plaster crumbles from cracks in the wall.

Come on. Get up you spineless git! Look at you, snivelling like a girl.

"Amare. Amo, amas, amat, amamus…" On and on and on. Like a bloody litany.

Shut the hell up! 

I hit him again and the scent of his blood mingles with the moldy smells of damp wood, rust, floor polish and drying paint, but he just laughs.

It's her. You think she was real, don't you? Well, let me tell you this: deep down, we both know it wasn't her.

He's not laughing anymore. Good.

She'd never ever allow you to touch her. Not in a million years, mate. Not after what happened. She'd rip your soddin' arms out and pummel you to a pulp, then stake you. You're just a thing. Remember? Disgusting. Loathsome. Beneath her. And that's all you'll ever be.

He shakes his head wildly, then buries it in his arms, trying to block out my voice. Won't work, mate.

Besides, She doesn't belong here. What you saw? Just an apparition, a figment of your imagination. Or maybe it was that other one. You know he's got plans for us.

"No!" He wraps his arms around himself.

What? 'No' as in 'not an apparition?' Or 'no' as in 'no plans?'

"No. I am not going back to that," he mutters. "I can learn. I know I can. I will prove it to you. I learnt it all by heart. I haven't forgotten."

Tosser! Sounds like he's about to cry. Makes me wanna grab his head and bash it against the wall. Again and again. Till there's nothing left. What good is a face like his if you can't use it to lure and hunt? What good is all that strength if you can't use it to do or take whatever you want?

"Gallia est omnis divisa in partes tres…"

For God's sake! What's with the bloody Latin? I think he's doin' this to spite me. Well, I'm not having any of this! 

Now, where's that knife gone?


	2. Warzone

It is watching me. The monster.

It appears to be pacing around, stopping here and there to rifle through crates and boxes, but while it does, it keeps throwing those glances at me, full of disgust and loathing. There is a lot of that going around these days, that much is certain.

"Where is it? What'd you do with it?" the monster asks, its anger palpable. It stops its prowl to search through an old three-legged desk (leaving all the drawers open, of course). It was there when I threw the knife away, but it seems to have forgotten all about it.

I try to ignore it. Hi omnes lingua institutis legibus inter se differunt.

"Where the hell is it?"

It half-heartedly kicks against one of the drawers. Its lust for wanton destruction is not what it used to be. It is broken. The monster. Not the drawer. It is not even wearing its true face. It stares at the desk for a whole minute, as if uncertain, but then it roars, picks the piece of furniture up and hurls it against a wall, causing wood to splinter and bricks to crack. What a mess!

I stop my rendition of Ceasar's conquests. Look what you have done. You broke it.

"Yeah, and it was fun."

We do not go round breaking things that do not belong to us, I tell it firmly.

"Oh yes we do," it smiles. "**I** do."

And that is exactly why we don't want you.

It squirms.

Nobody wants you.

Its face contorts with rage and hurt. "Wrong! You're the one nobody wants." It snarls and snatches a sharp piece of wood from the floor. 

I take a step backwards. Put it down!

"Or what?"

I thought we had already established that it is no use, when **I** failed to cut **you** out, I say, annoyed with myself for trying to argue with the monster. Face the facts. You are not going anywhere without me. We are like Siamese twins, you and I . Connected. Through heart and flesh. Or as you might put it, we're stuck with each other.

It is still coming closer. "Oh yeah?"

Go. To. Hell!  I say with great deliberation.

All I have to do is let go. Because when I do, it all comes back. Voices. Thousands of them. Crying, cursing, begging. Images. Blood, bodies, faces. Knowledge. Families, futures – all destroyed. And **her**… crying, trying to crawl away…

And the anguish and the shame and the guilt burn like fire.

"No! God, please…" The monster howls in pain and presses its palms against its temples. "Make it stop. Please, make it…."


	3. Triptych

"…stop!"

Suddenly everything's quiet. The voices are silent.

I open my hand and the makeshift stake clutters to the floor.

It **was** her. I know it now. Not a figment, not a dream, not that … that other one from beneath. Dawn! She said Dawn's in danger. Buffy asked for help and I wasn't there. I wasn't there! Not there, not there! Stop it! There's time for that later.

How many hours since… It doesn't matter. I run through the basement.

"Buffy! Dawn?"

No answer. I search the whole basement. It's like a maze. Old. From the old school, I reckon. Didn't get blown up like the rest of the building. I wish I'd been there to see it. Must've been quite a firework and a good brawl. News of the Mayor's spectacular demise travelled as far as Brazil.

I wonder who's brilliant idea it was to rebuild the school.

I come across a pile of rubble: pieces of concrete, sand, and white broken tiles, with cutting edges, that are gleaming in dim daylight that seeps down from above.  I look up. 

A hole in the ground, leading where? Restroom, from the smell of it. "Buffy?"

I listen.

School's out. Above us everybody's gone. No running, no locker door slamming, no smoking in the restroom, no bells ringing for class. All quiet now. They'll be back tomorrow. Unless it's Sunday, of course. What day is it? Don't know really, or how long I've been down here. Seems like forever.

"Buffy?"

There's no reply. Like I thought. She's long gone.

AN: Many thanks to Chen, Mikelesq and Marcee.


End file.
